John's Poem
by freak.in.life
Summary: John's therapist decides that writing a poem may help him cope with Sherlock's death. Sherlock finds what he wrote and runs home. TRIGGER WARNING: Suicidal Thoughts/Actions


Hello, everyone! This is my first fanfic on this account! I had another account, but I ended up abandoning my fanfics and losing the info for that account. So...yeah. I was in a feelsy mood while waiting for the Doctor Who Christmas Special. This is what happens when that occurs. Without further ado, enjoy! =)

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John's Poem

John sighed slightly, slumping in the uncomfortable chair across from his new therapist, Dr. Johnson. The doctor was a simple, yet elegant young woman, probably in her early 30s. She had long brown hair with matching eyes and pale skin.

"Don't give me that, John," the woman stated, quickly finishing the note she was writing before sending an unamused look towards her toughest patient, "This will be good for you."

"Just like the blog was," the blonde man grumbled, crossing his arms in annoyance.

"I'm just asking for a simple poem. No more than four lines, if you like. For all you know, it might help."

"I doubt it."

"...I'm running out of ideas, John. It's been six months, and I know that it's been difficult, but you are dwelling on him too much."

With another small sign, Dr. Watson lifted his hands in defeat, picking up a notepad and pen that were placed in front of him previously.

"Fine...fine, I'll give it a go."

Dr. Johnson gave the man a reassuring smile. While John tapped the back-end of the pen against the paper in thought, his therapist decided to type up the day's notes so far. As she was tapping out the last few words, the sound of something being placed on her desk caused her to look up. John just sat back down and waited. Dr. Johnson was not pleased with what was written.

_Apples are red_

_His scarf was blue_

_If he doesn't come home soon_

_I'll have to jump too_

Just as she opened her mouth to say something, a timer went off, indicating the end of that week's session. John stood, giving a polite nod with a strained smile, before quickly exiting the room, mumbling something under his breath. With a huff, Dr. Johnson typed the rest of her notes, along with the poem, and prepared for her next patient.

* * *

Sherlock sat alone in a shabby apartment just outside of Rome, Italy. He drummed his fingers against the desk he was seated behind while a program ran through databases across the globe, tracking down the last of Moriarty's men. Noting the time, he knew that John's therapist appointment should be done and that he could look at the notes. Secretly, of course.

Quickly tapping in the information that he learned by heart over the last few months, Dr. Johnson's notes on John Watson appeared on the screen. Sherlock quickly skimmed through them, the majority of the details almost exactly the same as the previous appointments. At least, until he got towards the end.

Reading the poem, his heart seemed to stop. John has never shown any suicidal thoughts or tendencies in any of the meetings. Well, from what the consulting detective had read. Mycroft refused to let Sherlock see John on any pictures nor videos. Now he knew why. He would have instantly seen that John, _his_ John, was suicidal and rushed back to Baker St.

Quickly finishing the notes, Sherlock froze for a brief moment before bolting out the door, grabbing his trench-coat as he passed. If one were to have been in the same room as the man before he left, they would see what the doctor had caught John mumbling on his way out the door. Why she didn't stop the man from leaving, no one could be sure.

_Should I use my gun or a noose?_

* * *

It only took Sherlock four hours to fly back on a jet Mycroft sent. It was a military jet, which reminded the curly-haired man of his blogger. He just hoped to the nonexistent God that he wouldn't be too late.

The man managed to get to Baker St., literally kick in the door, and bolt up to the flat in ten minutes, given his knowledge of London's alleyways.

Not seeing his blogger in the living room, Sherlock sprinted up the stairs to John's room when he heard a small creak, which he easily could tell was John shifting against his mattress, hopefully from the ruckus the supposedly dead man running towards him made and not his body slumping to the floor.

Sherlock reached the top of the stairs and slammed John's door open, gasping for lost air before nearly collapsing from relief at seeing his John sitting on his bed, slightly wide eyed. The dark-haired man quickly went to the blonde's side, ripping the cocked gun from his hand and throwing it across the room and down the stairs.

Then, everything was silent. John's eyes went back to their normal size before a small, pained chuckle slipped from him. Looking up at the taller man, tears rolling down the ex-soldier's cheeks from eyes that held so much pain that Sherlock could barely breathe at the sight, he spoke.

"Why is it that every time - every _single_ time - that I manage to either wrap a piece of rope around my neck or hold a gun to my head, you appear just long enough to make me believe that it's actually you, then, once I believe and put my death away, you disappear just before I can touch you? Why must my mind play these horrible games with me?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but John shushed him.

"Don't. Just...don't. I'm tired of hearing you either screaming at me to put the gun down, or step off the rope, or put the pills away, or hear you begging me to. I'm just so tired of it all. I met you, thinking that I was just saying hi to a friend of a friend. Then, before I could do anything, I was running down the alleyways of London. By the end of that one case, a normal person would run as far away as they possibly could from the sociopath trying to get them to move into their flat. I did the complete opposite. I ran _towards_ you. Then I did the dumbest thing I possibly could. I _fell in love _with you. Without question, I would follow your lead. I would praise you for things that most people would punch you for. For the first time in a long, _long_ time, I felt truly happy. Of course it was too good to last. You had to jump. You had to rip away your life and mine. It's not your fault, though. You either didn't now that I loved you..._love_ you, or, more likely, you just didn't care. I really didn't expect anything. I kept dating women just to keep myself sated. They never lasted because they weren't who I wanted to wake up next to in the morning. If you were going to fall, you could have at least had the decency to let me fall as well. Now, from the grave that I visit daily, you still refuse to let me come to you."

By the end of his speech, John was hunched over, his shoulders shaking violently with sobs. Sherlock, on the other hand, just stood there, shocked. He knew that John had some sort of affection towards him, but he didn't think that it was this strong. It was then that something hit the consulting detective like a ton of bricks. The flat was _exactly_ as it looked when the two left that fateful day. And John was wearing Sherlock's scarf. The blue of it stood out awkwardly against The man's dreadful jumper. The blogger's hand was gripping the blue fabric around his neck like to was a lifeline. _Like it was the last thing that tied him to Sherlock._

After taking a moment to gather himself, and wipe the few tears that managed to fall onto those perfect cheekbones, Sherlock spoke.

"You said that none of the hallucinations were tangible, correct?"

John simply nodded, the sobs died down to a few sniffles as his head hung between his arms, which were propped against his spread knees.

His eyes widened once more as a pale hand was placed into his vision. Not daring to look at the face of the man he lost, John shakily lifted one hand enough to gently place calloused fingertips against a smooth palm. His eyes widened further as he fully took the hand into his own. Slowly looking up, the shorter man made eye contact with the other and knew.

"Sherlock?"

"I'm here, John. I'm home."

With tears of joy and shock rolling down his cheeks, John stood and embraced the man, holding on as if he would disappear if he let go. With one last tear falling from his own eye, Sherlock hugged the man back, smiling softly as he said:

"I promise that I will never leave you again."

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What did you guys think? Please review with any constructive criticism you may have, but you don't have to if you don't want to. I'll see you all in my next fanfic! =)


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